


Knit Two Together

by labellelunaclaire



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Footnotes, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Knitting, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23216446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labellelunaclaire/pseuds/labellelunaclaire
Summary: k2tog — knit two stitches together, a single, right slanting decreaseAnathema convinces Crowley to take up a hobby. Crowley gifts everyone his creations. Except for Aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device
Comments: 35
Kudos: 156





	1. Knit Two Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hyenateeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyenateeth/gifts).



> For my dearest Ambrose. She wrote me a Eponine/Cosette knitting fic five years ago. This is my repayment. Inspired by a rant she had after seeing fanart of Aziraphale knitting, in which she proclaimed, “Aziraphale wouldn’t knit! You can’t read and knit! You know who would knit? CROWLEY! Boy needs SOMETHING to do with his hands!”

Anathema was the one who suggested that Crowley try picking up a hobby.

“Just something to keep your hands busy,” she said, eyeing the way the demon’s hands moved around anxiously, clenching and unclenching, wringing, bursting with tense energy. “Maybe try knitting?”

Crowley’s strange relationship with the young witch began a week after they stopped Armageddon, when she simply showed up at Aziraphale’s bookshop. 1

“I was in the area,” she said, depositing her bag on the old hat rack. “Visiting Newt and all. Figured if I was making the drive all the way to London, I might as well stop in and see you two as well.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged confused glances, but the girl was already making herself quite at home, eyes trailing hungrily over the innumerable tomes.

“Anathema, by the way,” she shot over her shoulder as she examined Aziraphale’s treasured books. “Anathema Device. I don’t know if we were ever properly introduced. Adam told me that you’re an angel and a demon.”

And thus, Crowley and Aziraphale’s lunch plans were suspended to play host to Anathema, who sat and drank tea while asking them questions about the apocalypse that wasn’t, Heaven and Hell, books, cars, history, prophecies, magic, and anything else she could think of. It was impossible not to be charmed by her and her intelligence, charisma, and quirks. Though he had an image of cool aloofness to maintain, Crowley had to admit that he was interested in the witch, and found her company pleasant.

So started the beginning of his friendship with her, which led to drinks at his favorite bars, stealing unwanted houseplants from neglectful stoops, and suggestions of getting a hobby.

“I’m too psychic to be around this much anxious energy,” she told him jokingly as they relaxed in his sitting room. 2 “A hobby would be good for you.”

Crowley had, over the millenia, presented as female, usually to sow the seeds of discord amongst the women-folk. Such tasks often required having a basic understanding of whichever fiber-based skill was common at the time. He would weave at his loom or darn socks or spin fine threads for sewing in the company of wives and daughters, listening carefully to gossip and planting ideas and doubts in their heads while they worked. He didn’t actually need to be _good_ at whatever it was he was doing, as long as it looked at a glance that he was doing it right. Demonic miracles fixed whatever was wrong with his work. But he did have to admit that there was something almost arcane about the work of women through the ages, something to be admired and appreciated. He sometimes found it difficult to reconcile his own reverence for their skills with his part in it’s social devaluation, but if he felt guilty for everything bad in the world that could trace its origins back to him, he’d never feel a moment’s peace, now would he? 3

Point was, Anathema’s suggestion intrigued him. Maybe a hobby would be good for him. Not to mention it was bloody _boring_ spending time in Aziraphale’s bookshop when the angel was reading. There was no television to watch _The Golden Girls_ on, and Aziraphale had banned him from yelling at the few pathetic plants that were withering away in forgotten corners. 4 He _was,_ however, given express permission to use whatever means necessary to prevent any potential customers from purchasing one of Aziraphale’s treasured books, which he derived great pleasure from.

So with nothing better to do, Crowley found his way to a trendy little yarn shop, not terribly far from his flat, and bought several hundred pounds worth of needles, books, and luxurious yarns.

“We don’t get a lot of men coming in here,” the young woman at the counter said as she rang up his items. Her bright apron was covered almost entirely with novelty buttons and pin with sayings like _’femiknits’_ and _’stitch, please!’_ “What got you interested in knitting?”

“Eh,” he said, noncommittally, trying to come up with a reasonable response. “Just retired. My friend thinks I need a hobby.”

“Retired?” she questioned, carefully loading his purchases into a canvas tote bag with the words _’I knit so I don’t unravel’_ on the side. “You don’t look old enough to be retiring!”

“Clean living,” he told her, inserting his credit card and taking his new bag from the young woman.

“Well, we hope to see you again soon!” she called as he left the shop and headed home, where he spent hours trying to decipher diagrams and abbreviations and symbols on charts. 5

Eventually, after much muttering and cursing and several online video tutorials, he had produced a lumpy length of gray wool that only barely met the commonly accepted definition of a scarf. The edges wobbled in and out as he had accidentally picked up stitches and then attempted to right his mistakes by knitting stitches together. But still, as he stared at the scarf, running his finger over the knobbly rows and stitches, he felt a sense of pride swell in his chest. Crowley had always been an imaginative and creative creature, and with his recent retirement from spreading Hell’s chaotic evil on Earth, he’d lost his outlet for that creativity. He might not have always enjoyed the more mundane aspects of his job (standard temptations bored him, and the paperwork that accompanied them bored him even more), but he took pride in his work. The idea of actually putting effort into learning something creative that could replace the work he once did was a compelling one.

Crowley took to knitting like a duck to water, so to say. Once he understood the basics, it was all really quite simple. And Anathema was right, it _was_ nice to have something to do with his hands, something to focus his mind on during down times when his brain wanted nothing more but to dredge up unwanted memories of burning books and burning highways and burning cars and burning Hellfire columns. Smooth wooden needles and plush yarn under his fingers kept him grounded in reality, soothing his singed thoughts. 6

Aziraphale’s eyebrow raised the first time Crowley pulled out his knitting in the back room of the bookshop while they relaxed and drank. “When did you learn to knit, dear boy?”

Crowley shrugged, tugging somewhat self-consciously at the purple yarn he was currently working with. “Book girl suggested it. Got nothing better to do.”

The angel made a curious hum and then didn’t mention it again, and Crowley was grateful to have something else to focus on to keep his thoughts from drifting to the color of Aziraphale’s eyes or the way his cheeks flushed when they drank or the casual touches they shared frequently now that they weren’t having to be careful about who might find out about their friendship. Much simpler to think about the way wood and wool came together to form a scarf. Yes, that was a better place for his thoughts to be.

Crowley soon, however, found himself in possession of far too many scarves and hats, most in colors he himself had no desire to wear. He was getting better, the motions becoming more instinctive as he built up the muscle memory, and he felt ready to take on more challenging projects. But first to figure out what to do with all the things he’d _already_ made.

Well, as it turned out, the internet had a few ideas for that. Which is how Crowley ended up scattering his creations around the city of London, putting hats and scarves on statues and fence posts and trees (provided they wouldn’t cause any damage) or anywhere else that he fancied. _”Yarn bombing”,_ the internet called it.

“Technically, it’s vandalism,” Crowley pointed out to Aziraphale with a gleeful smirk, because being retired from Hell didn’t mean he stopped being a _demon,_ after all. He still loved spreading a little chaos.

“I see,” Aziraphale said. “And what happens to the scarves and hats after you put them there?”

Crowley shrugged. “Don’t know. I’m sure eventually someone will take them down.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Aziraphale clapped. “I’m sure they’ll end up in the hands of someone who truly needs the warm clothing!”

Crowley just grumbled something along the lines of “suppose so”, and left it at that. 7

The first person he knitted something specifically for was Anathema.

“Oh, Crowley!” she exclaimed, running her fingers over the fine heathered blue wool. “It’s absolutely beautiful! I love it!”

Anathema draped the circular shawl around her shoulders, showing off the tiny white beads he’d painstakingly sewn on, a map of the night’s sky. She was fascinated when he’d told her about how he had helped build the cosmos back when he was an angel, before the Fall, so when he’d come across the pattern, he knew she would appreciate it.

“‘S nothing, really,” he said, because he had an image to maintain, after all. 8

After that, he knit things for all the others in his life.

For Adam and his little gang of half-feral pre-teen Horsemen-slayers, he knit hats with ear flaps and mohawks with matching arm warmers. Perfect for disrupting the peace of a sleepy little town like Tadfield. He knit a matching hat and sweater for Dog, snickering at the absurdity of a fierce Hellhound wearing hand knit clothes.

Sargent Shadwell received a very utilitarian wool beanie and gloves. Madame Tracy, a lacy shawl, befitting of a phony mystic woman.

He even made Newt an unreasonably long striped scarf from his favorite science fiction show, though he still felt that the boy was an idiot and that Anathema could do much better for herself.

Crowley learned to lose himself in his work. If he was stressed, he knit. If he was anxious, he knit. If he was bored, he knit. If he woke up from a nightmare involving fire and burning angels, he knit. And unlike with any of the other skills he’d been forced to participate in over the centuries and millennia, he never utilized his demonic powers to make himself magically better. He knit the human way, fixing his mistakes by meticulously unpicking rows and starting again. 9 On the whole, he didn’t particularly care if his creations had imperfections, if the tension wasn’t quite the same through the whole thing or if he got off on the pattern. Though he made things for other people, he knit only for himself. There was only one project, which he kept in a box in his flat, that he truly cared about the end result, and making that end result perfect. _That_ project he only ever knit with purpose, careful to keep his tension even and his pattern on track, never to stitch away stress.

* * *

Nine months after the world didn’t end, Crowley found himself, as he often did, in Aziraphale’s bookshop. They’d had lunch at some new Greek restaurant that Aziraphale had heard good things about. The angel had savored the dolmas and briami and lamb souvlaki, while Crowley sipped on ouzo and enjoyed bites of baklava, 10 and then made their way back to Soho, settling in the back room for an evening of drinks and socializing. Though they’d done this countless times over the centuries (particularly since the advent of the Arrangement), it was still quite novel to do it so frequently, and without fear of either Heaven or Hell finding out.

Crowley had taken his current project out of his sleek leather knitting bag and continued to work while he and Aziraphale chatted, his sunglasses sitting on the table in front of him.

The angel eyed the soft sage green cotton.

“What are you making now?” he asked, nodding to the lacy fabric forming on the demon’s knitting needles.

Crowley looked down, as if he himself couldn’t fully remember, with the way he knit so unconsciously most of the time. “Oh, I found a pattern in an old Victorian ladies’ magazine for lace wristlets. Thought that they fit with Anathema’s whole _‘vintage witch’_ vibe. Bit of a bitch to sort out because those Victorians were a bit conservative with the details, but I remember sitting with a girl on one of my temptations who tried explaining them to me, so I’m getting by.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, his eyes glued to the knitted lace. “Another gift for Anathema, then.”

There was a strange tightness in his voice that Crowley recognized as the angel just barely holding back from saying what was really on his mind.

“Something you want to say, Angel?” Crowley proded, suddenly feeling incredibly self-conscious. He fiddled with his working yarn and ran his fingers over the active stitches, anxiety creeping high in his chest.

Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment and let out a sigh. “It’s nothing, dear boy,” he started. “It’s just—”

“Yes?” Crowley asked when he cut off.

_”It’s just,”_ Aziraphale continued, looking as though he were trying to pick his words very carefully, “that you seem to enjoy giving everyone one of your marvelous creations. Especially Anathema.”

Crowley shrugged in an effort to seem nonchalant, but it felt far too jerky to possibly have the desired effect. “She really appreciates my knitting. And she was the one who suggested it in the first place. And it’s not like _I_ need Victorian lace wristlets. I just needed the excuse to make them.”

The angel’s face flushed with something that might have been embarrassment or possibly anger, though Crowley couldn’t imagine why he should be feeling _either_ of those emotions.

“Well, that explains why you knit things for Anathema,” Aziraphale said in a short clipped voice.

“What are you getting at, Angel?” Crowley asked, feeling as pulled tight as a piano string about to snap.

“Oh, nothing,” he brushed off, but that mix of anger and embarrassment remained. “I just don’t see why, of all the people you’ve given things to, you’ve never once given _me_ anything.”

And oh. _Oh._

“It’s not that you’re… _required_ to,” he forged forward quickly, his voice losing some of that anger. “It’s only… well, I thought that _I_ was your best friend!” And with that the angel’s face looked positively stricken.

“Angel,” Crowley said cautiously. “Angel, are you… _jealous?”_

“What? No! Of course not!” he exclaimed, flustered. His face went even redder. “It’s just that you’ve knit things for everyone else! Even Newt, and you don’t even _like_ Newt! For goodness sakes, Crowley, you even knit a sweater for _the Hellhound!_ How am I supposed to feel about that, hmm? We’ve been friends for over six thousand years!”

Crowley suddenly stood up, bumping the table as he shoved his knitting roughly back into his bag and snatched his glasses from the table to cover his eyes. His face felt hot and he just needed to get out of the angel’s cluttered and claustrophobic shop.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Sorry, I’ll… _sorry.”_

He turned and rushed out of the bookshop, because when given an option between _fight_ and _flight,_ there was no question or competition.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called after him, but he was already walking out the door with the keys to the Bentley in hand.

* * *

Four days later, Crowley found himself sitting in the Bentley outside of the bookshop, a package on his lap. He nervously picked and fiddled with the ends of the twine holding it together, trying to keep from accidentally tearing the paper of the soft parcel. He’d been holed up in his flat ever since the fight with Aziraphale, carefully working on completing his special knitting project while ignoring the phone calls and messages the angel kept leaving on his answerphone. 11He had finally finished the project the day before, but was in desperate need of a nap in order to psych himself up to this meeting.

After several long minutes, he sighed and got out of the car, parcel in hand. There was no point in prolonging the inevitable. It was going to be embarrassing no matter how long he waited, so he might as well get it over with so he could run back home and lick his chops in peace.

The bell over the door rang as he walked in.

“Welcome in,” said a voice that was anything but welcoming. “Is there— _oh. Crowley.”_

“Hey, Angel,” Crowley said sheepishly, his heart pounding quickly in his chest.

Aziraphale dashed to the door from the counter where he’d been sitting and reading and flipped the open sign over. He pulled the screen down over the door’s window and ushered Crowley into the back room.

“Crowley, I’ve been trying to call you for days!” the angel chided. “I’ve been worried sick! I’ve felt just dreadful over the way I behaved and I hope that you’ll—”

Crowley cut him off by thrusting the brown paper wrapped gift into Aziraphale’s hands. “Here,” he said quickly, taking a step back and clamping his hands together firmly behind him.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened with surprise as he took in the gift. “Oh, dear boy,” he sighed as it began tugging at the knotted string. “You really didn’t have to. I was being rather silly before.”

“I’ve been working on it for a while,” Crowley replied, panic building in his chest, his eyes glued to the package rather than the angel’s face. “I just… wanted it to be perfect.”

The string and paper fell away.

_”Oh,”_ Aziraphale breathed. “Oh, _Crowley.”_

His well manicured fingers glided over the soft cream wool, taking in the cable pattern down the front of the plush sweater. He gently unfolded the garment so he could take it all in. Crowley held his breath, knowing that there wasn’t a stitch out of place, but feeling nervous regardless.

“The pattern,” Crowley nearly choked out. “It’s called _’angel wings’._ When I saw it…” _I thought of you? I knew you’d appreciate it? It made me wish we were…_

“It’s gorgeous, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley finally allowed himself to look at the angel’s face. Tears were pooling in those soft, light eyes. “Crowley, I am _so sorry_ for my behavior the other night. And to know now… that you were working on _this._ How selfish I must have seemed. How _childish.”_

Crowley had to step forward then, to stop Aziraphale from tearing himself down. He hesitantly placed his hands on the angel’s arms, uncertain but desperate to comfort. “Angel, it’s alright. You didn’t… you _couldn’t…”_ He sighed, trying to sort out his thoughts. “We’ve been through… _so_ much together. You’re the only other one who’s been here as long as I have. And I don’t want you to ever question… how much you mean to me.”

Aziraphale looked up at him and smiled so bright that Crowley felt as though the light of Heaven itself was shining down on him. But it was even _better_ than that, because Crowley had seen what Heaven had become, and knew that he would choose this moment with Aziraphale _every._ _Single._ _Time._

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said gently, his hands still clutching at the sweater. “I just—”

And the angel stretched up and kissed him.

For a moment, all Crowley could do was feel soft lips on his and his heart explode.

_”Angel,”_ Crowley breathed when Aziraphale finally pulled back.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said sheepishly. “I should have asked first. But I’ve… I’ve want to do that for a long—”

Crowley kissed him back, harder this time, trying to let his body say what his mouth couldn’t.

“Please don’t apologize,” he murmured when they broke the kiss once more. “I can’t… there’s no need… _six thousand years,_ Angel. I’ve wanted you… and _now—”_

“I know, my dearest,” Aziraphale said. “Or, well, I suspected. I _hoped._ But then, we stopped Armageddon and… nothing really changed between us. And I thought I was alright with what we had. But seeing how close you were with Anathema… I’ve made quite the mess out of this, I see.”

“No, Angel,” Crowley reassured. “I think that I was… I was afraid to push things further. Afraid to put myself out there and tell you.” He reached up, hands shaking slightly, and took off his sunglasses so he could look the angel in the eye. “I _love_ you, Aziraphale. I’m… _in_ love with you. And I have been since the very beginning. Since we stood on the wall in Eden.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. He reached a hand up to cup Crowley’s face. “So long?” he asked tenderly.

Crowley’s face burned where Aziraphale touched him and his tongue felt thick in his mouth. He nodded, not trusting his voice at the moment.

“Well,” Aziraphale continued slowly. “I’m not sure when I first knew that I loved you — because I do, Crowley, I love you more than you could possibly know — but I think that I first… _allowed_ myself to love you after you saved me in the church.”

_“Someone_ had to stop you from getting yourself discorporated,” Crowley mumbled, embarrassed.

“Yes,” the angel agreed with a smile. “I had gotten myself into quite the pickle, hadn’t I? But after that, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Crowley. About how very _good_ you were, though you never let me tell you. I knew then that I was in love with you, but I thought that we could never be together.”

“But now?” Crowley asked thickly, his eyes prickling.

“Now we’re on our own side. Now we’re free to make our own choices. Now we’re free to _love.”_

He said it with such utter conviction, such _devotion,_ and with so much tenderness and love in his eyes, that Crowley couldn’t help but shed a few tears, which Aziraphale brushed away with his thumb. 12

“So, I guess you like the sweater?” he asked the angel _— his_ Angel — when he felt that he could make his voice sound semi-normal.

Aziraphale laughed and took a step back so that he could hold out the sweater once more.

“Dearest, it’s _perfect._ _You’re_ perfect,” he said with all the love in the world. “I couldn’t possibly imagine a better gift.”

* * *

1She had gotten the address from a certain pre-teen anti-christ.[return to text]

2The first time Anathema had been in Crowley’s flat, the following conversation occurred: _“So why do you and Aziraphale have your own places?” “What do you mean? Why would we_ not _have our own places?” “I just thought… I mean, you call him— shit, he’s a_ literal angel… _Why are your plants terrified?”_ [return to text]

3Though he rarely knew a moment’s peace, anyways. Hense Anathema’s suggestion.[return to text]

4This ban did not include his muttered threats as he repotted the sad things into pots with proper drainage, meticulously measuring out the proper amount of plant food and water needed by each varietal. “There’ll be no more of this _wilting,_ now,” he hissed as he nursed a particularly pitiful hoya back to health. “That ridiculous, featherbrained angel might not know the first thing about plants, but _I_ do, so you’d best start growing as you should or you’ll see what happens to plants who can’t make the cut.” Each of the plants was now looking marvelous, though they trembled slightly when Crowley came to water or feed them.[return to text]

5He was only half wrong. As any knitter knows, all knitting patterns contain a certain level of dark magic and require proper knowledge of the craft in order to safely contain the energy within the knitted piece. Blood sacrifices, while not strictly required, are highly recommended.[return to text]

6There was a noticeable difference between his stitch tension when he was anxious and when he was simply knitting away boredom. If one was looking closely, they could actually _see_ as his heart rate slowed and his breathing steadied, forever embossed in his work. Not that most people tend to pay such close attention to the work of another.[return to text]

7In reality, he’d already considered that possibility, and made sure to place some of his items in areas with homeless populations.[return to text]

8Inside, he glowed with delight at her enthusiasm.[return to text]

9And if his yarn never tangled or broke and his skeins never had knots and he never ran out of yarn mere _inches_ from the end of his work, well that was just good luck, wasn’t it?[return to text]

10Contrary to popular belief, Crowley _did_ eat. He simply didn’t care for food the same way Aziraphale did, and often preferred desserts.[return to text]

11Thank _someone_ the angel still didn’t understand texting, or he’d also be fielding dozens of texts as well.[return to text]

12Though if anyone ever asked, Crowley would vehemently deny it, and the asker might find their steering wheel transformed into a live snake the next time they got in their car.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, big thanks to my fiancée, Ambrose, for inspiring this fic. Also for helping me figure out the coding for the footnotes. And for indulging me in my constant need for validation when writing. There’s no one in the world I’d rather be quarantined with now that Pestilence has come out of retirement.
> 
> I’ve been knitting for 10 years, so I actually did a fair amount of research for the patterns in this fic. If you’re interested in any of the patterns mentioned, check out chapter 2, where I’ve linked to all of my inspirations!


	2. References

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all the knitters out there wanting to knit like Crowley!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was way more trouble to code than it should have been. Why does AO3 like to fuck with the html?

I had a lot of fun looking up pattern references for this fic! Some I’d been familiar with for a while, some I just discovered while researching for this fic. Some of the following links may require Ravelry accounts to access, but if you’re a knitter and you don’t already have a Ravelry, _what are you even doing?_

First off, [here is a link to the yarn shop worker’s “femiknits” pin.](https://www.etsy.com/listing/554121753/femiknits-knitting-enamel-pin-badge?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=femiknits&ref=sr_gallery-1-2&organic_search_click=1&frs=1) I really love all of this etsy store’s designs!

Here is the [canvas tote that Crowley’s purchase come in at the yarn shop.](https://www.cafepress.com/+,1635632627/?utm_medium=cpc&utm_source=pla-google&utm_campaign=6722882581-d-m&utm_content=79150933613-adid-388455650541&utm_term=pla-828165798181-pid-1635632627&gclid=Cj0KCQjwpfHzBRCiARIsAHHzyZqX_wMyFaV1Gv9mGe5LTDZbIxr0FSFNnlUbxzOm8uk6eTKYl7WguaYaAlFYEALw_wcB) Similar ones are available all over the internet.

Crowley’s yarn bombing was partially inspired [by a knitting initiative that went viral a few years back](http://callmehannah.ca/exclusive-meet-the-ottawa-knitters-that-won-the-internet-with-their-scarves-on-statues-initiative/), where they knit scarves and left them around the city with little tags stating that anyone in need could take them.

Anathema’s shawl is inspired by [this reddit post,](https://www.reddit.com/r/pics/comments/1x1n3r/my_wife_made_this_star_map_shawl_it_is_beaded/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=ios_app&utm_name=iossmf) which has been widely shared over the years. The shawl in the post was based off of two patterns, [a modified _Celestarium_](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/celestarium) for the main shawl and [_Lunar Tide_](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/lunar-tide) for the edges.

The hats for The Them are [_Punk’s Not Dead._](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/punks-not-dead)

Madam Tracy’s shawl is [_Mystic Fire._](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/mystic-fire)

Newt’s scarf is (of course) [the fourth Doctor’s scarf from _Doctor Who._](http://www.doctorwhoscarf.com/) I actually knitted the _Shada_ variant when I was 19. It definitely contributed to my carpal tunnel and I recommend knitting responsibly if you choose to undertake it!

The wristlets that Crowley is making for Anathema were inspired by [_Victorian Fingerless Gloves._](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/victorian-fingerless-gloves) I had wanted to find an _actual_ Victorian knitting pattern, but didn’t find anything I liked. I have seen some Victorian knitting patterns, though, and they can be _very_ stingy with the details.

Finally, Aziraphale’s sweater uses the [_Angel Wings_ cable.](http://www.craftcookie.com/knitting-stitches/cable-twist-stitches/166-angel-wings) I absolutely love this cable pattern and really want to make it. [_Truitje in Angel Wings Cable_](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/truitje-in-angel-wings-cable) is a full sweater pattern similar to what I pictured in the fic, but be warned that the pattern is in Dutch. I really, _really_ want to knit this sweater for myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has given kudos, commented, and bookmarked so far! It’s been many years since I wrote fic for a fandom as large and active as _Good Omens_ so I was a little nervous! I’m glad that y’all like my knitting fluff! Maybe we should start a _Good Omens_ knitting club in this time of Pestilence.


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